


the trouble's not worth the pleasure (but i feel alive)

by xenocuriosa



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Choking, Cunnilingus, F/M, Insults, Masturbation, Mentions of addiction, Mentions of self-harm, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Canon, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Slapping, Threats of Violence, Typical Roy Family Dynamics, Vaginal Sex, background canon relationships, fighting leads to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 09:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30070119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenocuriosa/pseuds/xenocuriosa
Summary: Shiv needs a favor, and she thinks Kendall might give it to her. They're family, after all.
Relationships: Kendall Roy/Siobhan "Shiv" Roy
Kudos: 10





	the trouble's not worth the pleasure (but i feel alive)

**Author's Note:**

> It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sibling incest ship with twisted and prickly dynamics must be in want of me to ship it. Or something like that. Anyway, here you go.
> 
> Title is from Meg Myers' [Tear Me To Pieces.](https://youtu.be/c92Isg49BOo)

The months following the blood sacrifice—a term Shiv would've deemed pathetically grandiose before her life turned into a contemporary Shakespearean tragedy—are marked by Senate investigations and daily conversations with a dizzying array of lawyers, publicists, and journalists, with Tom crying next to her in their California king as the wolves snap at his heels. Shiv curls up at his side at night, tucked under her own duvet, a thousand-thread count desert separating them. She feels like a wire drawn tight, tautening as the twin forces of her father's will and her sense of self-preservation stretch her thin. Inside, she nurses a seed of anger. Lately, the seed has begun to sprout, sharp roots twining around her ribcage.

What a stupid metaphor. But fuck the metaphor. Here's the truth for you: Shiv is so tired, so lost, that she doesn't actually care about her fucking metaphors.

After Kendall delivered the speech that sent her world spinning out of control, he'd ripped up his prepared statement and tossed it aside as he walked away. That much was captured on camera. Shiv wonders if that was his attempt at petty symbolism—tearing up his last scrap of family loyalty or something equally puerile. It makes her feel better to think so, especially tonight, when she's banished herself to the guest bedroom after waking up twisted and sweaty in her duvet, the vestiges of a nightmare clouding her mind with animal fear. But Shiv learned a long time ago to not let herself feel fear, not really. She transmutes it into anger, and there she is, back at the fucking seed metaphor.

Shiv rolls onto her back, kicks off the sheets in a fit of childish frustration. Her torso is bare, and the climate control is tuned for Tom's comfort, not hers. It's a too-little too-late appeasement, an unvoiced plea: _stay with me, I'll change for you, I'll make it better_. Which is a lie. Shiv kind of hates herself for wanting to believe it.

The cool breeze of the A/C prickles her skin, hardens her nipples. She touches one absently as she tries to clear her mind, rubs little circles over it, pinches it. A little jolt of pleasure spikes through her body, and yeah, maybe that's a good way to spend the next few minutes. Maybe she'll be able to think straight after an orgasm, or at the very least get some actual fucking sleep.

Shiv readjusts. She tosses her head back, getting comfortable, and slips a hand under the elastic waistband of her underwear. Her last wax was a couple weeks ago, and the hair growing in is prickly, but when she parts the lips of her cunt with a practiced finger, she's already nice and slippery. Shiv's always been easy like that.

As she begins to trace the same circles around her clit that she did around her nipples, Shiv lets her mind wander. She's too preoccupied to fantasize properly, but her body doesn't really care as long as she's applying the right sensations. It's stress relief or whatever.

What her mind does go to is Tom, and the fact that she finds her husband a source of guilt and stress instead of the subject of erotic fantasies says a whole fucking lot about her life right now. But all she can think about is Tom—and Kendall, strangely enough, straight-backed and face hard like she'd never seen it as he threw the statement to the side and strode away. And of course, she thinks of that evening on the yacht with her father. _Not Tom_ , she whispered.

Which meant: _yes, Kendall._ Which meant: _he's too fucked-up to be redeemable_ , with the implied, _but Tom isn't_. Which meant that Kendall had the opportunity to call out Logan on live TV, and later he poached the best PR talent to be found in New York City and went back to rehab to shine up his public image—and now the crosshairs have turned on Tom, the sacrificial Brightstar sheep, and neither Shiv nor Logan can do a fucking thing for him.

Shiv is very fucking wet. Little shivers are coursing through her, back arching. Her orgasm is building, tension in her legs, her cunt spasming to the rhythm of her fingers. It's unrelated to her train of thought. A detached part of her wonders if it's fucked up that she can so thoroughly compartmentalize like this, but the rest of Shiv's brain thinks it's a pretty nice skill to have.

Her brain catches on the previous thought and returns. Shiv and Logan can't do a thing for Tom, yeah, but could Kendall maybe—

Her hips jerk a little, and she pictures her brother, who used to be so predictable. Because Kendall has always wanted the same things as long as she's known him: respect, a fix, pretty girls to fuck, to _prove_ himself (to their father, to the world, to himself, the fucking cliché scumbag). And he was soft, then; Shiv could bully him or give him puppy-dog eyes and he'd sigh and tell her to fuck off and eventually do what she wanted. 

(God, he'd been pathetic—always wanting more, always _wanting_ so obviously. Didn't he know he had to play his cards close? Didn't he know not to show weakness? Shiv skates a finger directly over her clit, shudders all over.)

But she doesn't know this new Kendall, who threw his family under the bus and walked away without looking back, who screens her calls and communicates solely through lawyers, who—so rumor has it—is planning to move to California, invest in tech and turn himself into some fucking Warren Buffet-style philanthropist to make up for his checkered past—what a fucking joke, and there's that anger flaring, the seedling beginning to flower.

She's so fucking close, and the anger just goads her on. Shiv rubs her clit hard, letting her nails catch the sensitive skin; it hurts, it's good _because_ it hurts, and she wants more.

What would this new Kendall do if she went to his door, if she asked him for help? Is his shiny new reputation sturdy enough—

"Fuck," Shiv gasps, then clacks her teeth shut and clenches her jaw.

—to offer Tom some cover? If she went to Kendall, if she promised to help him with evidence against Logan, if she _begged_ —

A sobbing sound escapes her throat. Her free hand slaps against the bed, her back arches. She comes so hard it leaves her shaking.

It's not enough. She wants to be fucked, she wants to kiss and bite and hurt someone.

Shiv is still catching her breath and trembling a little, but she wipes her hand off on the sheets and grabs her phone anyway. Nearly one in the morning, and if she were smart, she'd take some melatonin and sleep a few hours so she could have this conversation with a little more gas in her tank.

Instead, she gets up. She always lays out the next day's outfit before she goes to bed, and that's what she grabs: a tan, tailored suit with delicate gold buttons, a creamy white camisole, and matching stilettos. It's important to Shiv to look the part; Ken's going to be in a shirt and boxers, messy-haired, and she's got to have the upper hand. She's got to look like Shiv fucking Roy and not his little sister. Now is not the time for puppy-dog eyes.

She calls the car and does her makeup while she waits for it to arrive. Not a lot—too much makes her look like she's trying too hard, and Shiv needs to appear effortless—but enough to look put-together.

When she slides into the Mercedes, leather seats cool against her hands, Shiv thinks, _This isn't a good idea_. Shiv thinks, _I need to sleep first, I'm not ready,_ and, a quiet, sharp little thought like a striking snake, _I'm afraid of what we've become._

No. That's not right. She shakes her head a little, clearing it out.

Shiv thinks, and this feels right, _I want to tear his fucking throat out._

"Drive," she orders the guy in the front seat. She doesn't know his name; just another Waystar lackey. "To—fuck, I don't know the address—Kendall's place."

The driver knows better than to say anything. He takes her to Kendall's place.

* * *

There's a building attendant, of course. She doesn't want to let Shiv up, so they're having a pleasant argument. The woman watches her with unreadable eyes. Shiv's wound up so tight, she feels like committing a little assault and battery.

"Look," Shiv tries again, biting back useless insults ( _you little fucking cog, you power-tripping asshole_ ) and pasting on a we're-all-friends-here expression instead, "if you'd just ring up to him, I'd really appreciate it. I'm his sister; he'll want to see me."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the attendant says, like she's said at least four times already. "I can't do that."

In a different situation, Shiv might resort to threats, but she doesn't have the time to convince this woman she's for real, or the energy to pull the strings to make anything happen. Shiv inhales, holds her breath, exhales, and unzips her purse. She doesn't like to do this so brazenly; Shiv likes bribery to be more subtle, a web of favors instead of cash rough on her fingers. Each bill slides easily over her palm. The attendant's expressionless face flickers when Shiv pulls out the fourth one.

Shiv offers her five hundred. The attendant eyes the offering warily.

"We'll say I told you I was his lawyer or something," Shiv says. _We_ , so the attendant thinks they're a team. People are easily tricked. "You won't get in trouble." Also a lie.

The attendant squeezes eight hundred out of her, which is all the cash Shiv carries, before she finally buzzes Shiv up.

So Shiv's already got her back up when she gets to Kendall's floor. She's called him five times in a row, and she's gone to voicemail each time. He lives in the penthouse, so she probably won't wake anyone up by causing a disturbance, but she wants to.

She tries one more call before she gives up.

"Ken!" she shouts, and bangs on the door. "Hey, asshole, open the fucking door!"

A new burst of jittery energy is propelling her forward, and she's ready to hammer on the door and yell until dawn, but Kendall doesn't make her. _She_ would, if their positions were swapped.

There's the click of an opening lock, and then the door swings open.

It's the first time Shiv has seen him in four months. That's not that long, and there's no reason why the sight of him should feel like a gut punch, but it does. Physically, he's exactly the same—she thought he'd gain or lose weight, depending on how seriously he took rehab and how stressed he is—but nothing has changed. He even has the same haircut. 

But the way he looks at her is different. He's not the eager, over-confident Kendall of before, or the monotone robot he became after he started using again. He looks tired and wary, but alert, _present_. He takes the measure of her with a glance, weighing how much energy he wants to give her.

"Yo," he says after a moment.

"Uh-huh." Shiv can't stop herself from rolling her eyes. "You gonna let me in?"

"Uh, wow," Kendall says. He shifts a little, bracing himself like he thinks she's going to bulldoze her way past him. Which, to be fair, she is considering. He's only wearing sweatpants, gym socks, and a well-worn blue t-shirt; she could stomp on his feet with her stilettos and break his toes. "Yeah, great to see you, Shiv. But I don't think my lawyers would want me to talk to you."

"What, are you suing me too? Gonna turn this into a whole fuck-the-family murder-slash-dance party?" she asks, acid on her tongue. "Let me in."

He doesn't move, but when she pushes past him into the apartment, he only puts forth a token effort to stop her: the brush of his chest against her shoulder, his arm across the doorway falling away when she ducks under it.

The penthouse looks like an interior designer copy-pasted a catalog of the world's most boring minimalist décor into it. Shiv tells him as much, but Kendall just shrugs and leans against the wall, his face disturbingly blank.

Only one thing interrupts the white-and-chrome color scheme: an abstract painting hanging in the living room, where everyone can see it. It's a cobalt sphere on a light blue background, the sphere sliced into hundredths by a bright yellow-red gradient peering out from behind the thick layers of blue acrylic. There's something electric about it, something alive. It's a splash of strange color, very unlike Kendall. Shiv stands in front of it, examining it and waiting him out, until Kendall joins her.

"You're into art now?" she asks, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

"No, not really," he says, and clears his throat a little. "It's Nay's. Naomi Pierce. She's, uh, moving in."

He's not quite blushing, but there's a tiny smile just barely touching the corners of his lips. Like a fucking teenager. Shiv swallows her invective, but it keeps scratching at her teeth, wanting to hurt.

"Well," says Shiv, sickly sweet, "isn't that nice. Do you talk dirty about how you and her family destroyed our father when you fuck?"

Kendall exhales, a barely-there chuckle. Once, he would've flown off the handle. Shiv frowns.

"Honestly, Shiv," he says, and there is actual fucking pity in his voice, "I don't think about Logan much at all anymore."

Shiv turns to face him fully, holds his gaze. He doesn't blink, just looks placid. Shiv's body is buzzing with the urge to just slap him across the face or something, kick him in the balls, like how she and Roman fight when they need to get their anger out, but that won't work here. She rocks back on her heels, curls her hands into fists. Kendall tracks her motion but keeps his mouth shut.

Shiv says, "I don't fucking believe you."

A long pause. Something's happening behind Ken's eyes, but she has no idea what.

"That's fine," he says, and moves away from her, back to the kitchen. "How's Tom?"

He says it so casually, like he hasn't watched the news or read a goddamn article or even heard gossip from slimebags like Stewy Hosseini. Wrong move.

"How's Tom?" Shiv enunciates. There's a sneer on her lips she can't remove. She isn't a shouter, more reliant on sarcasm than anything, but the temptation is so, so hard to resist. "How's _Tom_ , Kendall? He's drowning in the fucking Cruises shit-heap, right where you put him. What else did you fucking expect?"

That gets her a reaction, at least, which makes a mean little part of her curl with satisfaction. Kendall's eyes narrow and his jaw sets, his arms crossing over his chest.

"Yeah, well, he was in on it, wasn't he?" Kendall says. It's a statement delivered as a question. "He literally burned the evidence, Shiv. He's the one who deserves it."

The sound of the slap is almost as satisfying as the feeling of her palm connecting with his face. Kendall reels, not braced for a fight. There's a chance he's never been in a real one. His dealers are probably too genteel to get rough with him.

But Shiv learned how to fight from Roman, who's a sneaky bastard, so she leaps after Ken before he can recover and crashes both of them against the countertop, grabbing a chunk of his hair with one hand and hitting him again with the other.

"What the _fuck_ —"

Kendall tries to push her away without hurting her, despite the anger on his face, which is infuriating. Shiv spits in his face and hisses, "Fight me like a man, you fucking coward."

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Kendall hisses back. His jaw is clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he digs his fingers into her shoulders and shoves her away.

"What's wrong with _you?_ Why don't you fucking fight back, fuckface?"

Shiv kicks him in the shin, hard—that'll leave a bruise—and Kendall yelps, loosening his grip. She goes for his face, pretty soft skin, he probably moisturizes and wears sunscreen or some shit these days, and he catches her hands before her hooked fingers can rip him up.

Shiv is loving this. It's not sex, but it's _something_ , a way to exorcise all the restlessness and guilt and frustrated, impotent anger from her. When she was a kid, she did the whole cutting thing for a bit, for the same reasons, but these days, she prefers to hurt other people instead—it's the Roy family way—and sometimes she'll even goad them into hurting her. But that last part, she'll never admit out loud.

Now she's goading Kendall, who's got her wrists in each hand, clamped around them so hard her bones ache. At last, that placidity's fallen off his face, and what's left is rawer and more savage than she's seen him in a long time.

"What's your game, Shiv? You fucking barge in on me at one in the fucking morning to, what, pick a fight?" A sneer twists his face, ugly and mean. It makes her bare her teeth back at him and go hot all over. "If you want someone to slap you around, have a little fun with you, you could just ask Tom, not come crawling to me."

"Fuck you," she snarls. She detests the way her body jumps at the thought—it's not Tom's hands on her she's imagining. "You disgusting little—"

They grapple for a moment like that, Shiv's wrists in Kendall's hands, bodies pressed close. Fragrance lingers on his skin, his body wash, probably, but she can smell sweat and acrid anger rising from him too, and the unique skin-scent of her brother that she's known since birth—Shiv has a brief, unsettling flash of being a kid, eleven or twelve, and stealing Kendall's Harvard sweatshirts when he came back for winter break because she missed having him at home. They smelled of him.

Then Kendall's feet slide out from under him, his socks slippery on the tile, and in a different pair of shoes Shiv might've had a chance, but these extra-thin stilettos tip her right over. They topple in a tangle of limbs, Shiv half on top of Ken, who is very fucking lucky that he lands mostly on the carpet—saves him the trouble of a cracked skull. Shiv takes the brunt of the tile on her knees and yells in pain, but she doesn't let it slow her down, twisting to clamber on top of Kendall and take back her advantage.

"Jesus Christ, just fucking let it go, Shiv!" Kendall says, his voice rising to a shout. Shiv manages to pin his arms to his chest, leans on them with her body weight so he can't move. "Just—get _off_ me—"

"Coward," Shiv spits. The atmosphere has changed, gone taut and heated, and for a moment Kendall goes still and so does she, like they've tugged the pin from a grenade and are just waiting for the explosion.

Shiv doesn't know why she's doing this anymore. This has gone past spoiling for a fight. This is getting—dangerous.

She doesn't move away. When she speaks again, her voice is different, soft in volume but sharp as death: a scalpel, not a shiv.

"Fight me," she whispers against his cheek. His panting breath stirs her hair. They're so close, she could tear off a chunk of his face or throat with her teeth. She could kiss him, if she wanted. The urge to do it races up her spine like an electric shock and she can't quite shake it off. "You—you little _boy_ , fight me."

She feels his muscles tense under her. He's going to flip her over if she doesn't let him go, but she won't. That would be backing off, and Roys don't do that. Roys escalate.

And Kendall, true to blood after all, escalates.

He shoves her off him, like she knew he would, and Shiv goes sprawling on her back. Kendall scrambles to keep her there, and for a few moments, nothing is coherent but the instinctual urge to kill or be killed. It's pure physical violence—hands on her torso, her legs, hot skin under her clawing fingers; a knee in his stomach, an accompanying grunt, a brief surge of victory before he slaps her so hard across the face, she really does see stars. The sensation of their squirming bodies, their tangled limbs, their flesh rubbing together beneath their nicely-civilized clothing, is primitive, brutal, _sexual_. There's no real difference between this and fucking, and Shiv wants it, God, she wants to get _fucked_ and it doesn't matter that Kendall is the one on top of her, she _wants_ it.

Her superego is not picking up the phone. Shiv has never felt so much like an animal.

Then Kendall is kneeling between her legs, his thighs shoving hers apart, one hand bracing himself against the floor and the other on her sternum, right above her breasts, pinning Shiv flat. She claws at his arms; he curses and lurches forward, his hand suddenly around her throat, grip tight, dangerous.

Shiv goes very still.

There is a frozen moment where they stare at each other. Kendall is a couple muscle twitches away from choking Shiv. He's gasping like he's been running for his life. His face is twisted with anger and—something Shiv can't place. Something sad. It's his eyes—they're so very sad.

And Shiv is very, very wet. She can feel her pulse in her cunt.

Shiv watches him in silence. Sometimes it's better to let your opponent move instead of delivering a pre-emptive strike. In that silence, Kendall comes to a decision.

He leans forward, his hand pressing harder against her throat. Shiv swallows, feels his palm against her larnyx. Fuck.

"I know it was you," he breathes in her ear. "On the yacht, when you talked to Dad. The deciding vote. I know what you did."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Shiv lies. Her breath is shallow and quick.

"Yeah," Kendall says after a moment. There is nothing in his voice but contempt. "Sure." 

Without conscious decision, she tilts her head back, arches her back a little. An appeasement, an invitation, a challenge. God, what the fuck is she doing? How could she do—

_Don't flinch. Don't falter. That's how you lose._

A quick intake of breath from Kendall when her hips roll against his. His grip around her throat loosens and he leans away. "Shiv—"

But it's too late; she's felt it, his hard cock against her thigh. She grabs him by the shoulders when he tries to get off her, nails digging into his skin through the thin cotton shirt. He wobbles, steadies himself with one hand on either side of her head so he doesn't fall on her.

"You sick fucking bastard," she says, soft and cruel. Kendall's throat bobs as he swallows. 

"Yeah," he says, barely audible. "Yeah, I guess I am."

He doesn't move.

Shiv is off the map now, lost among the dragons. Only a handful of seconds to make a choice.

So she makes one.

Later, she'll tell herself that this was the best decision, the _only_ decision: she needs Kendall to do what she wants. She needs something on him. What could be more damning than this?

That's what she'll tell herself. But right now, with Kendall frozen above her and a million possibilities in the palm of her hand, Shiv doesn't scheme. She doesn't think. She just does what she wants.

"Don't you fucking move," she tells him, and hooks her leg around his to keep him there, her calf hot against his thigh. He opens his mouth. Shiv doesn't wait for the inevitable protest. 

"Don't say anything," she orders. Her hands go to the gold buttons on her pants. "Don't even breathe."

Kendall doesn't say a word as she unbuttons her pants, shoves them to her knees. Neither does he move. She'll cut him some slack on the breathing, which went harsh and loud when she bared her skin to him.

Kicking off her heels is easy, but wriggling her way out of her pants while keeping Kendall in his place proves harder. That's fine. She lets him go. Shiv needs Kendall to think, needs him to make his own decision for once.

She glances up at Kendall from under her lashes, expecting him to be staring at her legs and the strip of stomach exposed by her rucked-up shirt. Instead, he's gazing straight at her face, and there is something knowing and unsettling in his eyes.

Kendall nods to her, a gesture so minute it could have been a simple twitch. Shiv knows it's not. He sits back on his heels and says, "Here."

His hands on the fabric bunched around her knees, tugging it down her calves and tossing her pants to the side. Then he does look at her body, creamy legs and smooth stomach separated by a scrap of silky ivory fabric. Shiv actually sees his pupils dilate. Kendall puts one hand on each thigh and glances at her, as if for permission.

"What are you waiting for?" Shiv asks, her voice harsher than she intends it to be. She wishes she could hide her trembling, but stiffening her limbs does nothing but make the tremor more obvious.

Kendall's throat bobs. He hesitates another moment—the bastard always hesitates when he shouldn't, and jumps when he should take a minute to think.

But then he puts his hand between her legs, cupping the whole of her cunt over her underwear. Shiv instinctively pushes her hips up to meet him.

Kendall licks his lips and says, voice low, "You're wet."

"Yeah," Shiv says. "I am."

He presses the heel of his palm harder against her, right over her clit. Shiv takes a quick breath, thinks, _No excuses now. The blood's on your hands too, Ken, you can't pretend you didn't want this._

Her underwear is skimpy to avoid noticeable seams through the fabric of her pants. Kendall hardly has to move to slip a finger under the silk and between the lips of her cunt. Then another finger, stroking her gently, stopping just short of her clit, then coming close to dipping inside her but not quite. Shiv bites her lip to keep herself from speaking—though whether she's more afraid of ruining the moment or sounding a little too desperate is unclear even to her.

"We doing this?" he asks in that same low voice.

" _Now_ you're asking?" Shiv shoots back, and Kendall laughs.

Now his movements grow bolder; he's rubbing little circles around her clit, making her shiver, his eyes glued to her face. After a minute of this, Shiv loses her patience.

"For fuck's sake," she snaps. "Are you lost down there?"

"Just experimenting," he says, and takes his hand out of her underwear to scoot back a little. Shiv props herself up on her elbows just in time to see Kendall moving to lay prone on the floor, and then—

His mouth on her cunt is hot, his tongue pressing against her over the silk. Then he tugs the gusset to the side and she feels his tongue against her flesh for the first time, parting her lips easily, lapping at her hungrily. Not so gentle now; he finds her clit and licks it with the flat of his tongue, hard enough to make her gasp. Again, then again, before darting down and licking up her juices from her entrance, sucking on her cunt before focusing on her clit again. There's no real pattern to it, nothing Shiv can anticipate, but fuck, does it feel good, lighting up every nerve in her body, making her thighs clench around his head. Kendall adjusts his grip, rubbing his face against her soaking cunt. Shiv discovers her hands are tangled in his hair. When she twists it viciously, Kendall moans.

Shiv's fucked a lot of people, had her cunt eaten out by most of them. She keeps a mental ranking, just in case she wants to try a repeat experience. 

And among her sample size, Ken is _exceptional_. It's the enthusiasm, the way he sucks and kisses her clit like that act alone gets him off, and how well he's attuned to her body. Even, this, their first time—their _only_ time, Shiv corrects herself—he picks up on her cues and adjusts accordingly, moving his head _here_ , licking her clit _just like that_ , and when Shiv's nails scratch at his head while she whispers, "I need—I need—" he knows exactly what she needs.

There's nothing delicate about the way he finger-fucks her, his fingers curling deep inside her and rubbing against her G-spot on the way out, over and over, Shiv making little groans of pleasure and rocking her hips to his rhythm.

"Don't stop," she pants, grinding her cunt against his face. "If you stop I will fucking kill you, don't stop—"

Kendall makes an infuriatingly amused noise, and Shiv is about to snap at him, or maybe smack him on the head, when he puts his lips right over her clit and sucks, his fingers pumping in and out. Over and over and over. Shiv is losing it, she's babbling—

"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck—oh my God Ken, oh my God—"

Coming hurts, every muscle seizing, her back arching like a bow pulled tight. She makes a strangled noise and shoves Kendall's face against her cunt like she wants to smother him with it. She kind of does.

This is usually the part where the guy wants to stick his cock in her, and Shiv is delighted to reach it, because she really does want Kendall's cock inside her, wants him to fuck her so hard it hurts.

Instead, Kendall keeps going, lips and fingers and tongue all working in sync, and Shiv lets it happen.

She loses track of things for a while. Shiv's mind is always going, nothing but certain prescription medications can make it stop, but right now—

Right now, coherent thought takes a break. Time stretches. There's only pleasure and a delicious hint of pain washing over her in waves like drowning. Right now, she doesn't even care that the man between her legs is her brother.

Finally, it's enough, bordering on too much; her grasping hand finds his head and pushes him away. Kendall goes without complaint, wiping her fluids off his face with the back of his hand as he sits up. His efforts are wasted; Shiv soaked him from from chin to nose. He's going to need a shower to fully recover.

She expected him to look smug, but instead his face is tight and drawn. When he speaks, his voice is tentative, and Shiv despises him for it.

"Good?" asks Kendall. Shiv stares at the ceiling for a moment before answering, breathing deeply. Kendall twitches, like he's going to touch her, but he doesn't.

Shiv exhales heavily and, eyes still on the ceiling, says, "Get on your back."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Shiv says, and sits up. Her body is trembling, but she's getting her second wind. "Fair's fair, right?"

Another laugh from Kendall. It's a comedy-porno double feature in the penthouse tonight.

"This is fucked up," he says. "You know that, right? This is—even for our family, this is beyond fucked up."

"I'm not going to tell anybody," Shiv says. Kendall stares at her, unsure. So is Shiv. "Are you?"

"Fuck no," Kendall replies, so Shiv says, sharper this time, "Then get on your back."

Either of them could stop this right now. The heat of the fight has worn off. Shiv's cruelty is a little dulled. She could put her pants back on. Kendall could get up and shut himself in his bedroom. They could walk away from this.

Neither of them do, of course. They're not quitters.

Kendall lies down, but stays propped up on his elbows. Shiv doesn't even bother taking off his sweatpants all the way, yanks them down to mid-thigh. His cock isn't huge. It's of average length, in Shiv's professional opinion, but it's nice and thick. She squeezes it in her hand and pre-come wells at the tip. Her heartbeat pulses in her cunt, which is ready for more. Gently, Shiv lowers her head and takes the tip in her mouth, swirls her tongue around it. A salt taste in her mouth, and Kendall whimpers, which is—fucking hot, God. She flicks a glance up at him from under her lashes, wondering idly what kind of picture she paints for him. Judging from his hypnotized expression, a pretty fucking good one.

Shiv clambers on top of him, shoving him flat against the ground with a hand on his chest. She rubs her cunt along the length of his cock, grinding back and forth with a little moan of pleasure, and Kendall's hands on her hips spasm.

"Jesus Christ, Shiv," he groans, then, with sudden alarm, "Are you on the pill?"

"I'm not a complete moron, Ken," she says acidly. "I have an IUD."

"That's good," says Kendall. "Because that would be—bad."

"Wow," Shiv retorts, "way to show off that Ivy League vocabulary," and she fits his cock against her and slides down on it before he can snap back.

The moan he makes is almost as good as his thick cock inside her. Shiv's eyelids go half-mast as she settles onto him, rocking her hips a little as she acclimates. She rises off his cock about halfway before sitting back down, which jolts another moan out of Kendall and hits a place inside Shiv that makes her cunt clench around his cock.

"Oh yeah," she whispers. Shoves her hands under Kendall's shirt, digs her nails into his chest hard enough to bruise. See what Naomi Pierce thinks of _that_.

Up and down, up and down, her hips grinding against him, Kendall's choked moans urging her on. Shiv bumps up the pace, rides him faster, harder. Scratches down Kendall's chest, his grip on her hips painful as they fight to set the pace, the wet squelch of his cock in her cunt, his voice babbling: "Jesus Christ, Shiv, fuck, this is—God, your pussy— _fuck_ —"

"Yeah," Shiv breathes, tossing her head back, that delicious tension building inside her again, "yeah, Ken, you fucking— _take it_ —"

Kendall does just that, bracing himself on the floor and grabbing her by the hips, fucking into her harder than Shiv wants—but that _is_ what she wants, to be pushed to the edge, so she falls on his chest and buries her face in his shoulder and shrieks in pleasure.

Things are hazy and Shiv's entire body is quivering with enough orgasms to make her mind melt when Kendall slips his cock out of her and jostles them both by snaking his hand between their bodies, taking about three strokes to jerk off and come all over Shiv's stomach. Then he pushes Shiv off—although shoves might be a better word—and for a moment neither of them talk. The carpet is rough on her skin.

The bizarre thing is that this doesn't feel nearly as nasty as it should. Shiv just fucked her brother, entirely sober and entirely willing, and the disgust she feels is superficial, a concern about her image rather than the revulsion of breaking such a taboo. In a way, it almost feels _right_ , like this is the only reasonable outcome of their fucked-up relationship, like this is how it was always going to go.

Shiv realizes in this moment just how misaligned her moral compass is. She can never, ever tell anyone about this, even her therapist, or, God fucking forbid, Tom.

Beside her, Kendall stands up. He is silent as he tugs his sweatpants up and goes into the kitchen. He throws a dish towel in Shiv's general direction and disappears into the bathroom.

Shiv cleans up alone. She wipes his come off her stomach first, then, after digging around in his kitchen, wets another dish towel and gets the combination of Ken's saliva and her juices off herself next. Her underwear's useless, soaked through and flimsy anyway. She tosses it in the trash, wondering idly if Naomi will see, how Kendall would explain himself if she did. Maybe they have an open relationship. Who the fuck knows?

She stinks of sex but her skin is crawling as the severity of her actions sinks in; she wants to leave. But she came here for a reason, and she has to at least try.

Shiv doesn't even try to open the bathroom door; it's going to be locked. Instead, she raps on it once and calls, "Ken?"

He doesn't say anything, but she hears him sigh.

"Ken, I want to talk about Tom."

A pause, then a shuffling sound as Kendall walks to the door. He doesn't open it, doesn't speak. The only sound is the hitched rhythm of his breath. Shiv rests her head against the door and lets her eyes close, listens to the silence for longer than she should.

"You okay?" she asks finally, quietly. 

Kendall exhales. Shiv waits.

He says her name so softly she can barely hear it.

"Yeah?"

Another long, long pause.

"Call me tomorrow," Kendall says, wearily. "We can talk about Tom."

Shiv's pulse kicks up a notch.

"Not now?" she asks. "I think now would be—"

"Fuck off, Shiv," Kendall says. Startled, Shiv waits for more, and gets nothing except the sound of running water as he turns the shower on.

 _What the fuck_ , Shiv thinks. _What the fuck just happened?_

Hollowed-out and aching, she steps back. She finds her heels. She walks out.

* * *

The night air cuts her face as she steps outside. Shiv isn't sure if it's actually that cold, or if the breeze is just harsh against her overheated skin. She has the strange sense of leaving a hallowed space, like a believer exiting church, but she doesn't have the luxury of being relieved of her sins. No, instead Shiv is pushing sinning to the limits.

The car is idling in a no parking zone, where it's been for—fuck, nearly two hours. She's been gone too long.

Shiv ignores both the building attendant, who tries to speak to her, and the driver, who mutely opens the door for her. She slides into the embrace of the dark and the slick leather seats, tells the driver to take her home. 

As he pulls into the street, Shiv presses her fingers to her lips. Kendall didn't try to kiss her once. Which is good—that's good, right?

Shiv leans her head against the glass window and closes her eyes. She wishes she knew.

**Author's Note:**

> The painting mentioned is Alma W. Thomas' ["Astronauts' Glimpse of the Earth."](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/blogs/air-space-museum/2020/06/17/art-alma-w-thomas-colorful-response/) Would Naomi actually be in a position to own it? Who knows! But it's one of my favorite paintings, so I had to use it in the fic.


End file.
